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<title>To Catch a Fish in Sweet Tea by IAmWhoeverIWantToBe</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27326344">To Catch a Fish in Sweet Tea</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmWhoeverIWantToBe/pseuds/IAmWhoeverIWantToBe'>IAmWhoeverIWantToBe</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Original Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 22:33:47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>851</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27326344</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmWhoeverIWantToBe/pseuds/IAmWhoeverIWantToBe</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>An attempt at gothic writing inspired by a binge on tumblr</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>To Catch a Fish in Sweet Tea</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There’s someone walking up the pathway.</p><p>It’s a woman - wild-eyed and brittle-boned, with deep-seated exhaustion grabbing at her limbs. Her spine is stiff, but in a manner resembling that of untempered glass seconds before being struck by a hammer. She picks her way through overrun yard carefully, footsteps entirely muffled by the lichen kissing the concrete, save for the crisp crunch as she passes through a scattering of dripping dark amber. Wisely, she stays well-clear of the limp humanoid figure in amongst the brambles and long-dried stalks. How very interesting, the scarecrow is sitting among the oleander today. I see he’s finally moved on from the dead pea patch. Quite the odd choice of placement, but-</p><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>(First fasten the hook)</em> </b>
</p><p> </p><p>A trio of slow raps, hesitant but heavy with desperation,  interrupts my idle musing. It seems that my young guest has made it to the door without my notice.</p><p>“Hello? Is there,” and here a pause, a shuddering gasp of breath. “Is there anybody here? Please I- I need help!”</p><p>Well of course she does, don’t we all? I’ll be understanding just this once though, just this once. After all, where else can she go in this wretched weather? There’s nothing else beyond the damp and the mist but rotten wreckages and dried riverbed tombs.</p><p>Nevertheless, I invite her inside, welcome her to my humble abode. Her wild-eyes lose some of their sharpness, and her dragging limbs regain a little  buoyancy. She steps inside, barely flinching at the slam of the heavy door behind her, and ignorant of the deep, desperate claw marks gouged into the metal slab. Her gaze wanders, taking in the disintegrating plaster complete with shredded wallpaper, and her nose wrinkles lightly at the heavy sillage of some strange perfume, twisting in and around in its attempt to smother the cloying scent of copper. She follows me further inside, wincing lightly when the crumbling floorboards shift and creak with each step, as the singular askew portrait in the entrance way follows her progress with derisive scorn in its eyes.</p><p>“There’s someone after me.”</p><p>The young woman blurts this out without prompt as I motion for her to sit at the table. I can’t see why she felt the need to mention such a thing. After all, I already know this very well. I can remember him as if it were just yesterday; blond-haired, blue-eyed. With a dark sheen to his eyes, and teeth sharp enough to kill (and wasn’t that ironic?). You know, I can still feel the way his fragile skin gave way with a wet slip, slip, slop.</p><p>I say nothing though, and only listen blank-faced. My guest must take this as approval though, for she drones on and on and on<em> . </em> And I wonder, how does she know of me? We have never conversed, nor even met. What reputation must I have if she was willing to visit for safety from a mere mortal man.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>(Next, cast the line)</em> </b>
</p><p> </p><p>“I beg your pardon, it’s been a long time since I’ve had guests.” My voice is raspy, like the sound of a something large dragging slowly down a metal chute. “You must be hungry, just a moment.”</p><p>I leave her where she is to prepare a small platter. I pile it high with small red jewels; sparkling berries with the same complexion as ladybirds. A side of meat too – old, old, far too old. Buts it’s all you have left isn’t it? Silly old fool. She eats, oh she eats, tiny timid bites, polite despite all else. I eat too, with far larger bites. No longer needing to preserve what is left. I ignore the texture of ash with the ease of long practice. The meat tastes of tuna. Every time I glance at her, she is twitching, covered in light, silky touches sliding and squirming across her body with every heartbeat.</p><p> “Would you like tea?”</p><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>(Oops, there goes the sinker)</em> </b>
</p><p> </p><p>I rise and pour us both a cup of sweet tea. Don’t mind what’s floating in there, it’ll only put you off your appetite. You never look at what’s floating in the sweet tea. I take a sip, and ignore the taste of rusty nails.</p><p>With a crash, the young lady stands. </p><p>“What is this?” Oh dear, she does look a frightful sight. Her lips have been stained a bloody currant, a shade or two lighter that the viscous fluid dripping down, down, down from her tipped cup and pooling in chunks onto the floor.</p><p>A breeze blows, spreading open the threadbare curtains open behind me, like the ripped wings of a giant dragonfly. There are handprints, pressed into the spider-lined windows, smeared an almost orange-red like the light of a candle just before it dies out.</p><p>She runs, of course she runs, but where can she go? The plants have stretched, grown, contorted until they covered the windows, strangled the house. The door won’t open, no matter how she scratches and claws at it. What can a hooked fish do but flail, before tearing out their own throats.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>(And finally, reel in your fish)</em> </b>
</p><p> </p><p> </p>
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